In Darkness
by CapNap
Summary: John isn't coping well after Sherlock falls. After a few months, Sherlock comes back to 221B Baker Street, but John can tell if its all in his head. No Johnlock, more...friends/family-ish type...love.


**A/N: Hello all you readers! Another Sherlock fanfic, I'm pretty sure I have a good grasp of where this one's going. Its actually based on this headcanon I found a while ago. The first chapter is pretty short so...it's kinda like a "test". If you like it, want more...etc. TELL ME. Leave a review, send a message, whatever. I may not continue if no one is reading. I have other stories to work on as well. Hope you enjoy, and...yup. That is all.**

The bright morning sun flooded through the drawn curtains of 221B Baker Street. It was like every other day. John was sprawled on the leather sofa, trying in vain to get some hint of sleep. His body was weary, every fiber of his being screamed at him to rest. Every movement pushed him closer to complete exhaustion, but he knew if he fell asleep they would come.

The words.

The screams.

Everytime John closed his eyes He heard his own voice yelling above the din of the street desperatly trying to convince Sherlock to step away. To step back. He saw the blood of his best friend saturating the London sidewalk.

The dreams differed, too. Somedays he was running up the stairs of St. Barts. The door to the roof was ajar and just as he burst through Sherlock would turn to give him a final look of pity before falling. Other times it was exactly what he remembered seeing. Then, there was the truly terrible ones. The ones where he stands right behind Sherlock. He tries and tries to get his attention, to touch him, pull him back, but nothing works. Sherlock talks to his counterpart down on the street below. John can hear the desparation in his voice and see the tears streaking his cheeks. One thing is always constant though, he wakes up in a pool of sweat, his clothes plastered to his body, and sobs racking his chest.

John moves to the kitchen, his body just barely allowing him to do so. With slow, deliberate movements, he makes his tea and replaces everything he used back in their orginal spots. Nothing in the flat had changed since Sherlock died. John couldn't bear to move anything. Disgusted by the sun and its audacity to shine even months after the tragedy, John crosses to the drawn curtain and shuts out the light. With a merthless chuckle he realizes that he's shut out a lot of things since then. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft...

"You know, someone told me once that the Earth goes around the sun. I don't think the world is supposed to be revolving around one person." John nearly dropped his tea at the sound of the voice. He whirled around, not sure who to expect in his flat. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness in the doorway he saw a familiar figure standing there. A breath got caught in his chest and he did drop his tea.

"Sh-Sherlock?" His voice cracked.

"Hello John." Sherlock stepped into the room and approached John, stopping a few paces away.

"No," he whispered. Sherlock watched his friend closely, trying to gauge his reaction. He tried to read the emotions on his face.

"John..." he started.

"No," he said again, louder this time.

"John, its me..."

"No! No, it isn't p-possible! You," he paused, catching his breath. He pointed at Sherlock. "You were dead. I saw it! I saw you fall! You were...are dead."

"Yes, I know that's what it looked like. But, I promise you John, it wasn't real," he started to take tentitive steps toward John. "I'm alive..."

"NO!" John backed away, recoiling when Sherlock reached out his hand in an attempt to calm him. "YOU ARE DEAD. Not alive! Dead! I'm a doctor! _I _know what dead looks like!" John was yelling at the top of his lungs now. Screaming. Sobbing.

"John, calm down. You don't want to frighten anyone. How would Mrs. Hudson react if she came up and saw me standing here? I'd probably scare her to..." He stopped himself. Perhaps the saying "scared to _death_" wasn't an appropriate choice of words for the current situation.

"See! You're not Sherlock Holmes! If you were, you would've deduced that she had taken leave from Baker Street!" John was grasping at straws to try and deny that it was him. He wanted it to be Sherlock wholeheartedly, but he knew that it couldn't be true.

"I did, I did know that. It was just a thought. Please, John, listen to me-"

"Listen to you? Listen to _you?_ You're dead! You aren't here! I'm making this up. It's all just..." he lowered his voice and sat slowly into the couch. "It's all just in my head. My...sleep deprived, delusional, delirious head." Tears had begun to fall down his cheeks and Sherlock watched on in horror as his friend grappled with his emotions. He thought for sure John would be okay. Perhaps a punch in the face or a black eye for him, but he would've at least accepted it. The fact that maybe John couldn't accept it, and that he faked his death _too _well had never occured to him.

"John..." Sherlock was at a loss for words. John held his head in his hands and rocked back and forth slightly, crying the whole time.

"Go," it was a barely audible whisper.

"No. I'm not leaving you. Not like this."

"I said..._GO_." John looked up to watch the face of his late best friend. Indignant, Sherlock pulled the desk chair out and sat down on it, locking eyes with John. He gave him the, "two can play the 'stubborn game'" look. They sat in the haunting silence of Baker Street, each waiting for the other to break it.


End file.
